By Liat Alon PhD., Chief Learning and Engagement Officer
As a young child, I used to sit beside my father and run my hand gently over the large scar on the inside of his elbow. There was something calming in the way my fingers traced the uneven skin. At first, I did not ask what it was. It was simply there: part of him, part of life.
Later, my parents explained that the scar was the remnant of a wound he sustained as a combat soldier along the Suez Canal during the War of Attrition in 1969. That scar came rushing back into my memory last weekend, as the war with Iran broke out. A war that seems to be another one in a three-years-long thread of wars – a new War of Attrition, weighing on us here. Weighing so much more on all those trying to take cover and defend themselves against the missile attacks fired intentionally at civilian population of all faiths, creeds and beliefs in Israel.
I remember lingering on that phrase — “War of Attrition.” It sounded clinical, almost restrained. I sometimes wonder whether those who coined the term imagined how often Israel would find itself in lingering conflicts, defined above all by endurance.
Last Sunday, a missile hit close to heart. Closer than others. The missile hit Beith Shemesh and killed nine people inside a synagogue and in its vicinity.
I lived in Beit Shemesh for more than eight years. I moved there in 2005 to join an urban kibbutz called Tamuz – a small, mission-driven community of about twenty-five families committed to social activism, educational work, and civic engagement. At the time, Beit Shemesh was still a development town: a town of immigrants from diverse backgrounds, alongside a rapidly growing ultra-Orthodox community. For us, the kibbutz represented a contemporary expression of Zionism – not agricultural, but communal and rooted in responsibility for the broader society.
Within hours, I learned that the missile had struck Ramat Lechi, the neighborhood I once called home. The building stood just up the slope from the kibbutz apartments – feet away from my first apartment in town, before moving into the kibbutz proper. Geography that once defined the early chapters of my adult life was suddenly appearing in news alerts.
Over the next several hours, messages came in from friends who still live there: about those injured and killed; about rushing toward smoke and fire to pull people out; about shattered homes and the damage to the kibbutz’s buildings. The names were familiar. The streets were familiar. The sense of proximity – even from afar – was unmistakable.
It is easy, at a distance, to speak in the language of geopolitics. Iran’s regime is committed to deeply destabilizing the world, investing enormous resources in regional proxies and global military escalation. Its leadership has shown brutality and lack of basic care for civilian lives – Israeli and Iranian alike – in pursuit of ideological (apocalyptic) and strategic goals. Analysts have speculated for decades about internal change within Iran. Whether that moment is nearer or not, the human cost of the present confrontation is real and immediate.
When I think back to my father’s scar, I understand something I could not as a child. Scars mark wounds, but they also mark survival. They are evidence not only of violence endured, but of life continuing. For many Israelis today, the experience is less about dramatic headlines and more about the steady work of resilience – checking on neighbors, showing up for one another, rebuilding yet again.
From where we sit, far from the sirens, our connection may feel abstract. But for many in our community, the places on the map are not abstractions. They are streets we have walked, synagogues we have prayed in, friends we have called family. Remembering that — holding both the scar and the person who carries it — is one way we remain connected with honesty, clarity, and care.